And They Danced
by Sandy S
Summary: Part 77! A new funeral director comes to Sunnydale and runs into the Scoobies. The end is here! :o)
1. Chapter 1

****

And They Danced

by Sandy S.  
  


Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: All belongs to Joss and UPN.  
Spoilers: Through season 7 of Buffy. The scene in Los Angeles is set prior to the beast's arrival and the meat of the story is set after "The Killer in Me."  
Summary: What does a funeral home director in Sunnydale see? S/B as usual. . .  
A/N: This story is based on a conversation with two friends, Lisa and Jim, over lunch. We were discussing how the vampires could survive the embalming and burial process and the mortality of the funeral directors of Sunnydale. This story was inspired. Thus, the story is dedicated to them.

* * * 

__

"I've watched the sun rise in your eyes  
And I've seen the tears fall like the rain  
You've seen me fight so brave and strong  
You've held my hand when I'm afraid

__

We've watched the seasons come and go  
We'll see them come and go again  
But in winter's chill or summer's breeze  
One thing will not be changing 

__

We will dance  
When the sun is shining in the pouring rain  
We'll spin and we'll sway  
And we will dance" 

--from "We Will Dance" by Steven Curtis Chapman (2003)

* * * 

They always danced, no matter the season. They taught me more about love than I ever learned in my short marriage that ended a year ago. They were one of the many curiosities I witnessed in my six-month stint as Sunnydale funeral home director. As if the graveyard was the stage for their relationship, sometimes they danced fast and furious in the battle for their life or out of joy, and sometimes they danced with tenderness weighted with love or sorrow. 

However, my story requires an introduction before I can delve into whom they are, so please bear with me. . . .

* * *

Over dinner at my favorite Italian place in Los Angeles one evening, Jim and Lisa warned me not to move to Sunnydale. The conversation went a little something like this:

Taking a mouth full of my chocolate mousse pie, I casually mentioned, "I'm thinking about moving to Sunnydale after the divorce is final. The funeral director there died recently, so they have a job opening. I interviewed over the phone. It's mine if I want it. At least, when I'm able to move in a few months."

The couple in front of me exchanged knowing glances. Then, Lisa asked with concern in her voice, "Why Sunnydale?"

My curiosity was piqued by their evident alarm, so I explained, "Well, I was thinking that being in the same city as my ex wouldn't be too healthy given that we hung out in the same social circles. And Sunnydale's only two hours away. It'd be a short trip to visit Amber on the weekends. And she could come to Sunnydale on holidays." Amber is my six-year-old daughter and the reason I got married in the first place. 

Jim cleared his throat. "Well, we've heard recently that Sunnydale isn't exactly the ideal place to live. Last time we spoke with Matt and Sherry, they complained about the high death rate."

"They have more than a couple of pages a day dedicated to obituaries in the local paper," Lisa added, sipping her coffee.

"Well, that will keep me busy, I suppose." I would do anything to get my mind off the divorce and the recent tumult in my life.

"They didn't say anything specific, but apparently, there've been several strange occurrences around the city," Jim continued. 

"Strange?"

"Like I said; they weren't specific. Maybe the deaths are inexplicable. Maybe the crime rate's high. I don't know. They just didn't seem to feel safe much of the time. . . especially at night."

I sighed. "Well, that doesn't sound terribly different than living here. And I like the idea of living in a smaller community. Less traffic. Less pollution. Less apathy about other people."

"True."

Then, Lisa changed the subject to something about the utility of cast iron in cooking. I didn't think much of their concerns about Sunnydale at the time, but later, I'd look back with renewed understanding.

* * *

A few months after my conversation with Jim and Lisa, I decided to have movers store my belongings in Sunnydale while I took some time to adjust myself to the divorce. I visited family and friends across the country. Finally, I moved to Sunnydale over a weekend in early February, so I'd have plenty of time to unpack and get settled in my new apartment before going to work on Monday. No one was available to introduce me to my place of work because the receptionist had moved away, and a lawyer had mailed me the keys to the funeral home the previous week. 

On Monday morning, I bought a newspaper at a local bookstore to check out the obituaries over breakfast in the nearby coffee shop. I noted that as per Lisa's observation, the list of recent deaths took up half the first section of the paper. 

I pulled into the empty funeral home parking lot at half-past eight and approached the front door, enjoying the feel of the empty briefcase in my hand and fishing for the lone key that I had pocketed because I had yet to put it on my key chain. 

Turning the lock and pushing open the door, I fumbled for a light switch. After finding the switch and meandering through the usual entrance and formal rooms, I found my way into the basement room where most of my work would take place. A small, plainly decorated office was arranged to my right, and I entered to find an inexpensive desk made of particleboard, not wood. The desk was clear except for a phone, answering machine, and a long metal box. Behind the desk a fairly standard computer was set up. . . not new by any means but not out-of-date either. 

The tiny red light on the answering machine was blinking furiously, and I settled onto the chair to listen to the messages while I explored the drawers of my desk. Finding them empty except for some computer papers and a few mechanical pencils, I wondered where the records were kept. Perhaps the prior funeral director had entered them into the computer and kept electronic records. 

After jotting down notes from the messages, which turned out to be fairly routine, I turned my attention to the box on my desk. Fumbling with the latch, I threw back the lid easily so that the metal clunked on the desktop. Inside was a single item. . . a computer disc. The label on the disc was penned in a shaky hand and read, "To whom it concerns: Make sure to examine this FIRST."

Curious about the emphasis on the last word, I spun around and turned on the computer. The screen lit up quickly and in a few minutes, I'd slipped the disc into the computer and opened the directory to view a list of the files. A word processing file was the only file listed, and I clicked on the title, "IMPORTANT.doc."

My eyes read steadily at first, but by the time I finished the fifteen-page instruction manual, my eyes were wider than an owl's, and my heart was pounding. I now knew exactly why there were so many deaths in Sunnydale and what I had to do. . . what I would be forced to do. That is, if I decided to believe what I had just read.

* * *

Yes, yes, I'm getting to the two main characters of my tale. I just need to give this background, so you understand where I'm coming from. In fact, they're in the next section. . . 

* * *

A bit bewildered after the revelations on the disc, I chose to leave my new place of employment in favor of doing something to calm myself down. 

For some reason, I'd always felt a sense of peace from taking a walk through the cemetery next to wherever I worked. The graves were often beautifully adorned with flowers, other plants, and decorations. I enjoyed reading the names and dates of birth and death and imagining what that person must have been like in life. Often, I also used the time to sort through my thoughts about various issues.

Well, let me tell you that sorting through the notion that vampires and other demons might actually exist was not an easy task. 

I rolled the thoughts and arguments for and against such an idea so many times in my brain that I didn't notice where I was going, and I ran smack into a young, red-haired woman who was sitting on her heels before a beautiful headstone, which bore the name, "Tara."

"I'm sorry," I apologized, regaining my balance by clasping the marble marker she had been surveying with what I now noticed was intent, steady sadness. After years of witnessing people in graveyards, I could usually read how people were feeling. There were degrees and variations of pain.

"I-it's okay. I'm fine. I-I was just leaving anyway." She gave me a shaky smile, and I saw the remnants of tear tracks on her fair cheeks. 

Feeling a wave of compassion for her, I asked a question I might not normally pose to a stranger, "Whom are you visiting?"

The young woman nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and her eyes flickered from mine to the graves behind me. "A friend. . . a very close friend whom I love. . . loved very much."

"Her death must have been hard on you," I observed whiled mentally kicking myself for making such an idiotic statement. 

She lowered her head and studied her hands. "It was. . . is." Then, her eyes found mine. In them was painted a wariness and uncertainty but also a deep strength that often marks youth who have been through many difficult experiences.

To ease her mild alarm, I offered her my hand, which she made certain to grasp firmly and hold for a heartbeat longer than most people. Her eyes bore into mine then as if she was searching for something. She must have found what she was looking for because she sighed and released my fingers.

"I'm Mr. Fisher. . . Sam Fisher, the new funeral director."

"Oh." Some realization must have hit her then because she repeated herself, "*Oh!*" Then, she shook her head as if storing away the information. "I'm Willow. . . Willow Rosenberg. What happened to Mr. Turner?"

She probably met him at her friend's fairly recent funeral. "He passed away. Didn't you know?"

"Oh! No, I didn't know! I'll have to tell Buffy." She must have noted my confused expression because she attempted a clumsy clarification. "Ehm. . . I mean, she met him, too, my friend, Buffy, did. . . meet him. At our friend's. . . burial. . . um. . . her service. She'd probably like to know. Not that she 'likes' to hear that kind of thing." She changed tactics and turned to tables back to me. "Did you know him?"

"No, I didn't. I just accepted the job through a phone interview. I'm pretty new. Just got here a few days ago."

Willow nodded. "It's nice to meet you."

"You, too. Well, I must get back to my walk. You have a good day."

"Thanks. Bye." 

As I meandered away from Willow, I noticed how she gently caressed the headstone and whispered a few words before she headed in the opposite direction.

TBC. . . there's definitely a lot of S/B stuff in the next part. . . which is already written! This is just setting the stage! ;o)


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks tons for the lovely reviews! *hugs* :o) They mean a lot! And I hope you enjoy this Spuffy part! ;o). . . ALSO! This story was written before the recent epis on Buffy. . . and since I don't follow spoilers sorry if this is screwy! ;o) *dusts off chapter two and passes it to readers*  
So, I lied, and the couple wasn't in the last section. But I forgot about the importance of meeting Willow. . . .  
  
* * *  
  
Because of the backlog of work, I ended up losing track of the amount of time I spent in the tiny basement. When I glanced at the clock with bleary eyes, I realized that darkness had likely descended over this part of the world. As I became more aware of my body's exhausted muscles, I made the decision to close shop for the night and return more refreshed in the morning.  
  
Sighing, I shoved the papers I was working on into an unorganized pile and rose, pulling on my winter coat. At least, I had the small available staff coordinated to come to work tomorrow. The light from the small lamp in the office was the only illumination for the path to the first floor. Slightly disoriented in my new workspace, I staggered up the stairs, fumbling for the car keys in my pocket.  
  
When I reached the open door to the ground level, I caught a vague movement out of the corner of my right eye. Before I could react, a hand grabbed the front of my shirt roughly and dragged me into the light streaming from the reception area. My back and head slammed against the wall, and stunned, I dropped my briefcase with a clatter.  
  
Blinking past the stars marring my vision, I peered into a pair of glowing yellow eyes and inhaled the scent of death that marks all the bodies I dressed for funerals. . . except this dead body was animated. Instantly, I knew that all the information I'd read on the disc was true. The debate inside me ended.  
  
Then, the dead thing spoke, breathing cool air over my face with each syllable, "So you're the new funeral director. We've been waiting for you to arrive."  
  
Swallowing past the fear in my throat, I ceased struggling against his inhuman strength and mustered a confidence I wasn't exactly sure I felt. "Yes, I am. How may I help you?"  
  
The thing laughed, then, throwing its head back and revealing pointed canines and a crumpled forehead that made me shudder inside. "Listen to him." He turned his head sideways, and I glimpsed several similar beings behind him with arms crossed and cocked heads ornamented with cruel smiles. Random chuckles whispered through the air. "He sure is full of it. His heart is racing at ninety miles a minute. He doesn't know the drill yet, but he will."  
  
Words flew out of my mouth before I could censor myself, "Drill? What drill?"  
  
"The drill that every funeral director follows with regard to things that go bump in the night," he replied snidely.  
  
"And what drill is that? What do I have to do to satisfy the vampires of this city?" I wanted to hear my task straight from him.  
  
"Oooo, listen, Frank," my captor taunted condescendingly. His grip loosened on my clothing, and I slid down the wall to my feet. "He knows what we are. Smart boy."  
  
"Mr. Turner left information." His words also warned me to keep the outward appearance of calm in the creatures' presence. It helped that my temperament naturally allowed me to do just that. I knew not to make sudden moves as well.  
  
"Ah. He did, did he? Then, you know why we're here."  
  
I kept my voice even, "Yes."  
  
"In your job as the coordinator of funerals and burials here in Sunnydale, you have the unique opportunity to be near a hellmouth. To keep the undead happy, you have to follow a few rules."  
  
I decided to push the envelope. "What will happen if I don't?"  
  
He intentionally shoved his nose a millimeter from my own, licking his lips with exaggerated slowness. "What do you think will happen? What do you think happened to Mr. Turner?"  
  
Carefully, I swallowed at his very obvious threat. "And what do you expect me to do?"  
  
He ticked off his points by digging a new finger into my spine. "We need you to do things to facilitate the survival of our kind. . . meaning no embalming of bodies with obvious vampire teeth marks on their body. . . none of the required concrete fillers in the graves. . . no informing the Slayer of our whereabouts."  
  
"The Slayer?" I was confused on this point. Mr. Turner had left no mention of a "Slayer" on the disc. . . only the vampires' rules and what I would be required to do to placate them. "What's a Slayer?"  
  
"Me." A distinctly female voice flowed forth from the direction of the funeral home's front door. Power etched the single utterance. She tilted her head and continued, "Or, in the case of the current era, multiple me. But, just me tonight." Her eyes re-focused on the vampires. "Confused yet?"  
  
All eyes flew from me to a slight, leather-clad young woman, standing in the doorway with her legs spread and bearing a crossbow loaded with wooden arrows. She grinned sardonically at the mass of vampires who stood slack- jawed at her entrance. Murmurs of "slayer" preceded the quick rush of vampires as they roared and attacked the woman en masse.  
  
Firing her weapon, the wood landed with a *thunk* into the chest of the nearest vampire. He paused before bursting into dust. As I peered through the flying sediment, she stepped aside and another figure took her place in the door frame. . . a man of average-height. His skin was pale as the vampires', and although his face was marked with youth, his hair was shock- white.  
  
The vampire invading my personal space lost interest in me as the young woman and man began picking off the vampires around them. Unable to move from the horror of what I was observing, I simply stared.  
  
The pair were desperately outnumbered but seemed to take the challenge with indifference to the overwhelming odds. Their arms and legs whipped into their enemies in time to a rapid, invisible beat that the vampires couldn't seem to discover. With each misstep to the two's inner music, dust flew through the air, hanging in a haze that made the scene appear almost surreal. Their movements were intuitive and fluid. . . the mark of hours of training, as I knew from my extremely brief childhood encounter with martial arts.  
  
After several minutes, all but two of the vampires, who hadn't fled, had been weeded away, and I could tell that the two blondes were tiring. Without warning, one of the remaining vampires, the one who had held me against the wall, landed a blow on the side of the young woman's skull with a loud crack. She crumpled to the ground in what appeared to be slow motion, and my captor bent over her prone form.  
  
As if he instantaneously knew, the young man whirled from his current opponent and called what I assumed to be her name, "Buffy!"  
  
The vampire he had been fighting leapt on his back, but the young man slung the creature over his shoulder and pierced his chest without looking. He raced forward, tearing the attacker off Buffy. As the young man was squatting next to her, the stunned, lone vampire was shaking his head.  
  
Spying a discarded wooden rod a few feet away, I snatched it up, my heart doing somersaults beneath my ribcage. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I stabbed the wood downward, gasping a bit at the shock of the wood tearing through flesh. My victim and I exchanged a wide-eyed glance just before his body completely dissipated.  
  
I staggered back, partly from the astonishment of what I'd just accomplished and partly from the physical exertion of it. I re-faced my rescuers as the man gathered Buffy onto his lap, cradling her head against his shoulder. Alarm pumped through me until I realized that she was conscious. Her small arms encircled his neck, and she nuzzled her face into his shoulder. The expression on his face was one of pure love. It was a look that no one had ever aimed at me.  
  
Then, the young man centered on me. "Do you have a first aid kit around here?" His accent was definitely British.  
  
My brain attempted to re-focus as I noted the gash on the young woman's forehead. "I-I think so." I hurried toward the reception area's tiny office. "I believe I saw something in here earlier when I was exploring."  
  
He moved the young woman with care and followed me down the hall. As I searched for what they required, I listened as Buffy whispered to the man holding her.  
  
"Spike. . . I'm fine. Please put me down." Her words were slightly slurred.  
  
"No, pet. You've taken a pretty hard blow to the head," he murmured in return.  
  
"Um, I think I've walked home with more severe injuries before."  
  
Spike settled Buffy on the sofa in the waiting area. Their voices faded as I separated from them. Through the receptionist's glass, I viewed him tuck a stray hair behind her ear. I opened cabinets and rummaged through the contents, finally finding my target. Happily, I rushed to the doorway with my treasure.  
  
Spike accepted the kit and thanked me. Buffy sent me a smile that said she was placating Spike. I nodded and retreated to the office, keeping my ear on the conversation in the next room.  
  
The slosh of alcohol was followed by a distinct, "Ouch!"  
  
He sighed. "Pet, it's going to hurt."  
  
"I know, but I get impatient with myself. Blow it?"  
  
"More like, you get impatient with me," he countered. "And yes, I'll blow it."  
  
She withstood his next ministrations but made a face and pinched his arm. He swatted away her hand, and she shot him a glare.  
  
"How come you went on that date?" His tone contained an element of hurt as he concentrated on her wound.  
  
"With Principal Wood?" For her part, she was half-surprised and half- amused, forgetting to be annoyed at the pain on her forehead. She seemed to be trying to catch his gaze. "Why are you asking about that now? Jealous?"  
  
"Yeah," he acknowledged quietly. "Shouldn't I be? A little?"  
  
"Maybe," she replied cryptically.  
"Is that a maybe or a yes?"  
  
"Just what I said."  
  
"And what's that?" he insisted, dabbing her wound with a medicine cream.  
  
"That *maybe* you should be." Her eyes sparkled at him.  
  
He took her in a circle. "Should be what?"  
  
"Jealous!"  
  
He began stripping a bandage from the wrapping. "Do you *want* me to be?"  
  
My ears strained to hear her low answer. "Yeah. Maybe I do."  
  
A smile spread over his face, and the wrinkles in his brow smoothed out. "Good." Spike began packing away the medical supplies. He raised a brow at his patient. "Done, pet."  
  
As Buffy felt the bandage on her forehead, her eyes widened, and her chin jutted in a mock pout. "You!"  
  
He grinned. "Me, what?" He snapped the lid shut.  
  
"You tricked me!"  
  
"What of it? Got you to stop fighting it, didn't I?"  
  
She thought for a moment, but unable to think of a suitable response, she merely stuck out her tongue at him playfully.  
  
Spike chuckled. "Nice tongue. I seem to remember it as an old acquaintance."  
  
"Just an acquaintance?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
Before they could launch into another round of banter, I stepped back into the room. "Thank you for saving my life."  
  
Buffy smiled. "You're welcome. It's my job. Thanks for the medicine."  
  
"Who are you, if I may ask? What's a 'Slayer?' And why did you help me? And vampires. . . I didn't know they were real."  
  
"They are very real," Spike informed me. "Welcome to Sunnydale."  
  
"You're the new funeral director, right?" Buffy asked.  
  
"Yes, I am." My thoughts were racing. "Did Mr. Turner die at the hands of those monsters?"  
  
Buffy rose from the sofa and crossed her arms. "Yes. They killed him. With everything that's been going on, I was unable to monitor his safety as usual."  
  
"W-why did they kill him?"  
  
"Because he didn't follow their rules properly. They found out that their numbers were dwindling more rapidly than would be expected if I were simply happening upon them in the cemetery. Didn't take them long to realize that he and I were collaborating to some extent. . .although less so recently with what's been happening in Sunnydale."  
  
"What's been happening in Sunnydale?" What could possibly be worse than the vampires I'd witnessed tonight?  
  
Buffy and Spike exchanged a knowing look. "You don't want to know," she answered.  
  
"Well, if I'm going to put my life in danger, I'd like to know what's out there." I gestured to indicate the infinity of darkness outside.  
  
What they told me next had my head spinning. My dreams from that night on would be filled with vampires, slayers, and an incorporeal evil that had been present since the dawn of time. Why I didn't just up and leave Sunnydale the moment I learned this information, I'll never really know. Perhaps, at the time, I felt like being in Sunnydale, helping this mythic slayer gave me a new purpose in life. I hadn't been an adequate husband or father, but I could darn sure help make the world a better place.  
  
* * *  
  
My first encounter with Spike and Buffy would not be the last. The next segment tells of the second time I saw them together. Funny how when I look back, every encounter with the pair seemed more salient, more significant than the rest of my memories of my duration in Sunnydale. 


	3. Chapter 3

As the days passed, I slowly adjusted to my life in Sunnydale.  When I first began informing Buffy of potential vampires, I wondered why she didn't merely attempt to eradicate the vampires through the coroner's office.  

She explained that vampires had corrupt humans working for them in the coroner's office.  She wasn't sure which staff members in the office were the culprits, but she couldn't very well confront all of them without raising too much unwanted attention among hospital staff.  

Going through the funeral home to catch vampires was easier for Buffy. . . although most of the time that wasn't too reassuring to me.  I had to carefully inspect each body because vampires who weren't embalmed didn't appear to be that much different than the humans who were.  Someone in the coroner's office was smart.  

In the end, at least Buffy caught a few vampires through me even if some slipped past the coroner's office to shallow graves elsewhere.

I acquired a few people to work at the funeral home during the day and to handle the heavy workload of the small city.  Each new body brought to me a sense of dread as I wondered if the vampires would return to avenge what happened to their brethren.  Thankfully, anytime I had to work at night, I merely called Buffy, and she sent someone to protect me.

            One night, Spike arrived in the doorway, flipping a stake in his hand.  "Good evening," he stated simply.

            I nodded and continued my scan of the body on the table.  "I haven't seen you in a while.  How are you?"  Buffy hadn't previously sent Spike.  

            "Fine."  He approached my side, peering over my shoulder to examine the corpse.  "Vampire?"  

            "Nope.  No teeth marks.  But I have a guy who was victim of a stab wound at home.  Could be a winner."  I'd learned that vampires could be created through more than just teeth marks.  Any old wound would work as a gateway to the birth of a vampire.  "He's next up.  Didn't you read about it in the papers?"  

            Spike stepped away from the body and leaned against the wall to the left of me, pocketing the stake.  "Don't really read the paper.  Willow or Dawn usually checks the obits."

            "Oh."  In the past, I would have balked at young women scanning the papers and internet for information on circumstances of death.  I couldn't imagine my daughter doing so.  But now. . . it didn't seem so strange.

            Spike meandered into my office while I finished with the woman on the table.  As I was putting away the body, he reemerged bearing a framed picture.  "Your daughter?"

            Stepping away from the scene of death and stripping off my gloves, I tossed the latex into the toxic waste container.  "Yeah.  Amber.  She's an angel."

            Spike's face remained impassive as he studied her photograph.  "She's pretty.  Why isn't she with you?"

            My heart warmed with love for my daughter whom I'd spoken to only last night.  "Her mother and I recently got a divorce, and for some reason, we haven't reached a custody agreement yet.  She's in kindergarten.  She's brilliant. . . the light of my life." I considered him a moment.  "Do you want kids someday?"

            His eyes reached mine then, sending me a message of unwavering sadness but also acceptance.  "I can't have children."

Compassion for Spike flooded over me.  "I'm sorry."

He spoke matter-of-factly, "It's okay.  A result of my own actions which I have to accept."

"Still, it doesn't make it any easier, especially when you meet someone you really care about and want to have a family."  I paused, then, took a chance.  "Does Buffy know you can't have kids?"

Spike was startled by my question and shifted uncomfortably with the expression of someone who'd been unintentionally discovered.  Instead of falling into my trap to discuss his relationship to the slayer, Spike sidestepped my comment by stating the most parsimonious truth, "Yeah."

I opened my mouth to comment on what I observed between the two of them, but before I could utter a single word, a loud clatter rose from the enclosure where the bodies were kept.  

Immediately, Spike set aside the picture of my daughter and palmed the stake from his pocket.  With the stealth of a cat, he slipped up to the place where the stab- wound-guy rested.  My heart leapt in my throat as I reached into a nearby drawer to brandish my own stake.  So I wasn't nearly as competent a warrior as Spike, but I wasn't taking any chances.

As Spike swung open the hatch, my stomach flipped, and something I'd become accustomed to feeling in Sunnydale lurched in my throat.  

Stab-wound-guy remained motionless in his confinement.  

Damn.

The noise grew in volume, and I advanced toward Spike as he began impatiently throwing open each door on the enclosure.  

My eyes grew round as I observed a hatch swing open behind Spike, but before I could shout a warning, Spike was tackled to the ground by our errant vampire.  The stake flew out of his hand.  Spike threw the vampire backwards, knocking over a metal cart in the process.  

The vampire pulled himself up with alacrity and launched himself at Spike again.  Spike caught his head before it hit his abdomen and flung him to the ground.  While the vampire was otherwise occupied, he lunged for the stake that had rolled to one side.  I chastised myself inside for not moving for it sooner or tossing him mine.  

The next few seconds were a blur as the vampire scooted across the floor and pulled me to the ground, using me to resume standing.  As he moved past me, I maintained the right state of mind long enough to attempt bringing the stake toward his chest, but he batted my hand away with a laugh.

Meanwhile Spike had retrieved his stake and stopped upon seeing that I was trapped. . . and to view the growing panic that was spreading across my face.  I could see the war within him as he tried to make a decision about his next action.

The vampire laughed brusquely.  "Let me walk away from this, and he lives."

"I don't think so," Spike replied without hesitance, clutching the stake tighter.

The point of my stake pressed painfully into my neck, and I could feel something warm running down my neck.  "Maybe I'll kill him anyway."

Now I really was panicking.  My breaths came in short wheezes, and my head began spinning.  I wasn't sure if it was from the blood loss or fear.  The vampire's arm tightened around me.

Upon hearing those words, Spike rushed the two of us, and before I knew what was happening, I was knocked roughly to the ground on my side, and the vampire was floating dust around me.  Spike remained on his feet, and he offered me a hand up.

Blinking my eyes, I peered up at Spike to thank him.  What I saw floored me.  Questions whirled through my head.  Could one turn into a vampire merely by touching another vampire?  If so, how much contact did Spike have with this vampire. . .with any vampire?  Had he always been a vampire?  Did Buffy and her friends know he was a vampire?  How could he be enamored with a *vampire* slayer if he's a vampire?  A-and *that's* why he couldn't have kids!  

Spike noticed my slack-jawed expression.  He seemed uncertain for a moment, but when I backed rapidly away from him, he touched his forehead as if he didn't know what he was.  Comprehension entered his glowing yellow eyes, and his face immediately resumed human form.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Sam."  His tone was even and neutral as he held my eyes with his.

"S-stay away from me."  I backed into the table in the center of the room as I edged toward the door.  If I could manage to reach the entrance, I could possibly beat him to my car.  Thankfully, I had the keys in my pocket.

He advanced slowly as if to prevent me from sprinting away.  "Seriously, do you think Buffy would put up with me if I were evil?"  He cocked his head to one side thoughtfully.  "Not that she hasn't in the past.  But anyway, do you think she'd have sent me to protect you?"

"I d-don't know.  Maybe she doesn't know you're a vampire."  I used my little speech to cover more ground toward my destination.

Spike further closed the gap between us.  "Trust me, she does.  I've been working with her going on six years or so. . . give or take a year.  She knows me quite well."  

"*I* don't know you."

Spike frowned briefly.  "Listen, this is bloody ridiculous.  I'm *not* going to hurt you!"

"Sure, su. . ." 

The entrance of Buffy cut off my sarcastic comment.  "Spike!  What are you doing to Mr. Fisher?"

Defensively, Spike presented his palms to her, letting the stake hang loosely from his fingertips.  "Nothing, pet.  He just saw me."  Spike gestured in a circular fashion around his forehead area.

Buffy did the unexpected; she laughed.  Patting me on the shoulder, she reassured me, "Spike *is* a vampire, but he works with me."

My brow furrowed.  "I don't understand.  Aren't vampires *evil*?"

Smiling, Buffy confirmed my thought, "Yes, they are.  Spike was. . .once."  She gave him a tender-eyed look.  "But he's not now."

"Not now?"  Something wasn't computing in my mind.

"He has a soul."

"Oh."  Was that supposed to explain away the vampire part because he had a soul?

Spike took a deep breath and added, "Which doesn't mean I can't do evil.  It just means that I have a choice about whether I do good or evil."

Buffy nodded.  "Right, right."  Then, her manner turned serious.  "Spike, the reason I'm here is I needed to talk with you about something."

A myriad of emotions rolled through Spike's eyes, and for a moment, I thought I could see his soul.  Maybe there was something to the soul thing.  "What's wrong?" he asked her, concern etching his voice.

She smiled vaguely.  "Nothing big.  I just need to talk. . . get away from the house for a while."

Spike was attempting to fathom what she might want to talk with him about.  "Sure, pet.  But first, we have to get Mr. Fisher patched up.  He got wounded by a vamp tonight."

"Oh!  You got one!  Who?" Buffy wondered as she crossed the room to examine my neck.  

I put my hand to the wound's area, drawing back red fluid.  I winced at the sight.  "Not stab-wound-guy."

Spike picked up the folder corresponding to the vampire's storage area.  "A Mr. Wang.  He was a school teacher."

Buffy recognized the incident.  "Oh!  That guy.  Read about it in the paper.  Workplace violence.  Interesting.  He was vamped at work."  Spike passed Buffy the first aid kit.

"Yeah, he was working late at the school, I believe," I noted as Buffy cleansed the wound.  I was proud that I didn't flinch at her ministrations.  

"Ah.  I should have known."  She shook the cotton puff at me.  "Never, ever work late at night in a school in Sunnydale."

"Got it."  

Buffy bandaged my neck and examined her work with satisfaction.  "There."  

"Thanks."

"You're welcome.  Sam, do you mind coming with Spike and I to the church in the cemetery for a bit?"  Spike's face fell at Buffy's question.  

"How come?" I wondered.

"Well, it's too far to escort you all the way home and then come back here on foot.  My house is closer to your place than here, so it'd be a waste to walk all that way back.  And I'm bushed after this evening of patrolling.  Plus, we can't very well leave you vulnerable here.  Do you mind?"  

Buffy's long explanation sounded like she might be attempting to avoid something she wasn't sure she wanted to confront, but of course, I wasn't sure what that was.

"I guess that's fine," I agreed.  I cast Spike a glance, unsure how to react to him as a vampire when I'd been thinking he was human.

"Okay, then.  Let's go."

* * *

            You may think I've made some leaps with my insights about these two people. . . and yes, I said *people*.  I suppose my backwards view of events is tainted by what I witnessed later.  This next part of the tale covers what happened in the church.

* * *

*** Thanks for the reviews! This series will wrap up soon! It's short! :o)

*hugs*  Sandy 


	4. Chapter 4

In an effort to avoid listening to every detail of their conversation despite the temptation, I busily explored the front of the chapel, running my fingers over the cool wooden pews, staring into the flickering candles lit by believers and mourners, and leafing through a book of church songs.  

The church was a Catholic one, so I swung down the kneeling bench and dropped to my knees.  I prayed for my family and especially my daughter.  I prayed that I would know what to do with the knowledge I'd gained about the supernatural world. . . a world I was finding myself quite caught up in.  When at last I sat back to survey the crucifix hanging before me, my ears automatically aimed toward the quiet voices drifting from the back of the church.  

Buffy's voice was laced with heartbreak and vulnerability.  "None of you can truly understand," she protested.  

Spike's response was gentle but bore a trace of impatience as if he'd heard this line of thinking before from the slayer.  "Buffy.  No one can understand anyone's perspective perfectly."

"Well, there you go.  No one can understand me.  I'm the slayer. . . the only one. . ."

Spike interrupted her before she could veer off too far into her rant, "*But* we can listen and put ourselves in your shoes."

"But you don't have to experience what *I* do," she insisted.  "You don't have to feel responsible for all the deaths that occur."

She's asking him to tell her how special she is. . . that she's needed despite how helpless she feels in the face of ultimate evil.  My thoughts fly to Amber and the look in her eye the day her mother and I told her that we weren't going to be together anymore.  Despite the conflict surrounding us, I was proud that my ex-wife and I had told her together.  It hadn't been easy.  The vulnerability of my daughter never failed to touch my core.  I decided to call her later tonight to remind her that I love her.

"You can't be responsible for every death that occurs related to the First.  That's like saying you're responsible for the sun shining today and not yesterday.  You have no control over those things.  You can't control what others do all the time."

Buffy sighed.  "But I'm supposed to be the leader in this war.  And I don't even know what to do to stop the First.  And he keeps manipulating people. . . getting people I care about killed.  And I know I have to accept that people are going to die in this war.  But people look to me to stop it. . . stop the death."

"And what happened with the girl tonight. . ."

"Was one of the deaths I didn't stop. . . no matter how hard I tried."  

She sounded so defeated as she studied her hands.  I willed Spike to touch her and comfort her.  I knew he was a vampire, but if this was the end of the world, she needed someone to understand her. . . or at least try to.  

I couldn't fathom the weight she bore, and I wasn't sure I wanted to truly put myself in her shoes as Spike had said others could.  The very thought frightened me and made me want to run away.  Perhaps she was afraid others would turn from her. . . perhaps they had if they thought they had to take on what she did, . . . and perhaps she was right.  

"Buffy. . ."  

He reached for her, and she allowed the gesture.  Without another syllable uttered, he pulled her onto his lap.  She let out a soft cry when he folded his arms around her, and my head snapped fully up from where I was busily pretending to read a tattered hymnal.  When I realized that the sob was half out of relief, I refocused on the book, keeping my view on them out of the corner of my eye.

The certain sounds of crying drifted my way, and I remembered the same utterances coming from my wife. . . my ex-wife when she knew we would never work together.  

My heart ached as Spike stroked the slayer's shoulders tenderly and rocked her back and forth in his lap.  Suddenly, it struck me that the vampire probably understood her better than anyone else could, being mired in the same twisted world she was.  She could be herself with him the way no one else could.  

A stab of jealousy went through me.  I longed to find that kind of companionship.  On the other hand, I didn't know if I'd really want the connection if it came with such a hefty price tag.  

For several minutes, the two bonded.  Funny how adversity brings people together more closely than they ever would have been.  When her tears ended in hiccups and tiny shudders, he kissed her forehead, and she moved her arms from his chest until they wrapped around his middle.  

"I got makeup on your shirt.  Now it's all messy," she said, making one of those observations people put together when they feel a little awkward about expressing their feelings.  

Spike's voice was hoarse with emotion, "I can deal with messy, pet.  It's what I do."

"I bet," she returned, patting his shoulder but remaining in his arms.  Her next sentence deftly sidestepped the other meaning of what he was telling her, "I bet you spent hundreds of years helping Drusilla get the blood out of her clothes."

Spike smiled slightly.  "Well, not technically *hundreds* of years. . .but yeah.  I bet you had your fair share of dirty garments, too."

"Yeah.  Some from slaying the nasty demons, some from Dawn borrowing my clothes, and some from. . . well, *you* know what from," she teased.  She settled her head against him again.

The last comment was obviously something from their past that I was not getting.

They were silent for several more seconds.  Then, Buffy asked hesitantly, "Can I ask a favor of you?"

Spike was firm and sounded sure of himself.  "Anything, pet."

"Promise me something."

Spike stiffened a little.  "Now you know that if you ask me to promise you something, I will do my utmost best to follow through.  I mean, I won't back down from it."

Buffy nodded and looked into his eyes briefly.  "I know.  I remember. . . will always remember what you did for Dawn. . .for me.  And that was before. . ."

"Before I got my soul."

"Yeah."

I was a little confused on the soul point.  What exactly did a soul mean to a vampire?  What exactly did a soul mean to any of us as human beings?  People do good or bad with a soul.  Does a soul amount to anything besides a moral conscious?  And do all people with souls have a moral conscious?  My instincts told me "no," but I wasn't sure what my instincts said about vampires with souls.  Hell, I didn't even know vampires existed until a month or two ago.  

"So what do you want me to promise, love?" Spike asked, his voice heavy with emotion.  He so obviously loved her.  I hadn't realized until that moment that he needed her as much as she needed him.

"Promise me. . . that no matter how bad things get, you won't disappear on me," she murmured as if she thought of relying on. . . depending on someone as being weak.  Maybe that's what others had told her. . . that's what society often teaches us.

Spike inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly.  "Pet, I can promise you that I'll never leave your side. . . no matter how long the fight takes. . . no matter how brutal it is.  I'll be at your side until I'm no longer living."

"Will you?" she asked doubtfully.  I wondered vaguely if she had been told those things before and then been betrayed.

"Do you know me?" he asked firmly.

"Yes."

"What do you think?"  He paused as if uncertain about whether to continue, but then he plunged ahead, "Buffy, you know I love you.  You know I'm not going anywhere."

"Love is fickle," she responded.  "I need you to be here. . . not because you love me but because you're willing to stand by me to the death."  Her tone is edged with slight bitterness.

Taking her by the shoulders and pushing her back from him, he asked with hurt and slight anger, "Do you think *my* love is fickle?"

Buffy was startled by his retort and back peddled quickly.  "No.  No, I don't, Spike."  She surprised him by touching his cheek tenderly.  "You love with your whole being."

She surveyed his face with an expression that suggested something further might happen between them when suddenly, a loud crash rang out over the church.

Spike and Buffy were on their feet in an instant, and I imitated their movements, fighting the urge to hide under the pew.  Despite my introduction to the world of fighting evil, I was still a coward at heart. . . at least, when faced with evil forces.

"Is there a 'Spike' in here?" a man announced in a booming voice from the doorway.  

The owner of the question was of fairly small stature and wore a handsome suit.  He was carrying a stake and was surrounded by approximately twenty demons who looked like they could definitely take down the slayer and her partner. . . if not the whole building.  

We were in big, big trouble.


	5. Chapter 5

This next part is a little long, but the tale marks the beginning of the end of my stay in Sunnydale.  Actually, I'm quite surprised I stayed as long as I did.  

* * *

            Although well projected in the echoing church building, Spike's voice was a bit gravelly with forced down emotion.  "That's me.  I'm Spike.  What do you want with me?"

            Somehow, as Spike stated his uncertainty about the situation, a gnawing feeling that I'd seen the man before crept into my gut.  I couldn't quite put my finger on the source of the reaction though.  My thoughts flashed to the First Evil, but I dismissed the idea because the First did not typically surround himself with demons.  From what Buffy told me, most demons tended to run from the First.

            Buffy flexed her hand around the stake that she'd produced from somewhere on her personage.  She didn't interrupt Spike despite what her body language said about her desire to do so.  

            The man sighed, but the sigh wasn't one of exasperation or fatigue.  He was clearly in some sort of ecstasy, but I couldn't fathom why.  He clapped his hands lightly together like a four-year-old at a birthday party.  "Just the vampire I was looking for."  Jabbing a finger lightly at the wary vampire under scrutiny, he continued, "I have something to show you.  At least, once you get done with your girlfriend here."

            Spike frowned at the man's insinuation.  "Now what could you possibly have that would interest me?  And she's not my girlfriend, by the way."

            Yeah, right, she's not his girlfriend.

            Obviously impatient but also probably partly embarrassed at being caught in an intimate situation, Buffy intruded sideways to Spike, "Is he some kind of old acquaintance that you haven't properly dealt with, Spike?"

            Spike's gaze didn't waver from the man.  "No.  I've never seen him before."

            Buffy whispered, "You sure?"

            Buffy's added question made me realize the truth.  *I* was the one who knew this man.  The truth hit me like a ton of bricks and an instantaneous knot formed in my stomach.  What could I say?  I was a psychosomatic person.  

            Mustering my courage, I stepped forth from the shadows where I'd been cowering.  Without looking at Buffy or Spike, I cleared my throat.  "Um.  You're the man who came to visit me two days ago.  Mr.. . . um. . ."

            A broad smile spread across the man's face at my appearance.  He waved back the demons that had inched forward and were growling in warning at me.  (What a laugh; they were giving me the warnings.)  "Charles Smith."

            Buffy's sarcasm was swift and biting, "How convenient."

            Mr. "Smith" raised both eyebrows at the slayer.  "Who is this?"  One of the demon entourage ambled up and murmured something incomprehensible in his ear.  "Oh.  Well, she's of no concern to me.  What I need is Spike."

            *What* not *who*.  His choice of words intrigued me.

            "I'm standing right here," Spike noted as sardonically as Buffy.  "And it would be helpful if you told me what you 'needed' me for."

            "I'm kind of interested in what he went to visit Mr. Fisher for," Buffy added, planting her hands on her hips and moving closer to Spike.

            Mr. Smith smiled delightedly.  "Of course.  I'll be happy to explain the situation to the *slayer.*  She just needs to come along for the tour.  I suppose I could use both of you to help with my situation."

            Spike and Buffy spoke simultaneously.

            "Why did you visit Mr. Fisher?"

            "What kind of tour?  And what do you need help with?"

            I raised my hand slightly.  "Um, if I may."  I was feeling more than a little intimidated by the throng of demons surrounding Mr. Smith. . . hence, my timidity.  

            "Of course," Mr. Smith replied even though he knew I was more interested in Buffy and Spike's approval. . . er, make that Buffy's.  

Despite the tenderness he showed Buffy and the multiple times he saved my life, I still wasn't sure about Spike.  The human mind worked in mysterious ways.

            "He came to the home today, saying he was looking for someone to make a deal with.  Someone affiliated with vampires," I explained, gaining confidence with each syllable I uttered.  Spike nodded at me to keep going.  "He was looking for someone who helped stop the vampires, and he heard I had a hand in it."  

            Buffy snorted sharply.  I wasn't lost on the irony either.  Mr. Smith knew who I was but not the slayer?  Very strange.  

            "He asked me point blank if I knew Spike.  I've always been a terrible liar because even though I told him I didn't, he must have seen the truth all over my face.  I thought he believed me because he left right after.  I felt sure he did believe me. . . until now."  I drew a breath and added, "He didn't say anything about needing help with anything."

"Why didn't you say anything this evening when I came down?" Spike asked.

Sheepish, I ducked my head.  "I forgot, especially after that vamp attacked us."  Suddenly, I felt like I was in second grade again when my mother found a pile of hidden "bad" grades in the back of my desk.  How stupid was I?  I'd stared death in the face too many times in the few months I'd been here to make that kind of mistake.  

"It's okay," Buffy reassured me.  Her head turned to face Mr. Smith and crew.  "So when do we go see what you have to show us and explain what you need help with?"

At that, Mr. Smith grinned.  His teeth were extremely crooked.  "Now, if you like."

Buffy shrugged.  "What else are we going to do?  Sleep?"

Mr. Smith laughed as did a few of his demon companions.

I was startled by Buffy's seemingly flippant attitude toward Mr. Smith.  My mind flew over the multiple explanations for her behavior.  Going to investigate this situation seemed rather reckless.  On the other hand, we were badly outnumbered by the demons; she seemed to have little choice about going with him.  Also, maybe she believed she should check every set of circumstances to determine if the ultimate evil was somehow involved.  

Turning on his heel, Mr. Smith began marching toward the church doors, demon friends hot on his heels.  "Let's go."

As Spike and Buffy followed, I attempted to melt into the darkness, planning to contact her friends as soon as the strange man and his demons left the church.

            However, at the door, Mr. Smith caught my eye.  "You're coming with us."

            "What?  No," Buffy said firmly.  "Mr. Fisher stays out of this."

            Mr. Smith wasn't fazed.  "He's already waist deep in the middle of it.  He comes with us."  Dread launched a new campaign on my stomach.  He nodded at me.  "I could use all the help I can get.  He's experienced with dead things."  The unspoken, "he's coming or else" hung in the air.  

            That said, he shoved open the doors to the church and let in the night.

* * *

            I won't go into the details about how we got to our destination.  Suffice it to say that Mr. Smith and his demons lived in a rather large mansion in a prestigious housing edition in Sunnydale.  What made the largest impression on me was what Mr. Smith had displayed in the house.

* * *

            "Bloody hell."

            Spike's words echoed my sentiments exactly.  

            "Glad to see my humble space provokes such a reaction," Mr. Smith declared, rubbing his hands together.  His demon companions were fewer in the safety of his home, but a handful remained hovering around him.

            The room was virtually dark but from the dim lights scattered throughout, the ceiling appeared to be quite high.  The room was also so vast that I couldn't make out the far wall.  What produced the most intrigue were the objects that were lit by the dispersed spots of radiance.  Although I didn't recognize what I was viewing, I was distinctly certain that they were quite important and rare.

            "What the hell is all this stuff?" Buffy demanded, hovering close to Spike's side and making certain I was shielded by both of them.

            Mr. Smith let out a giggle. . .yes, a giggle.  Maybe he was a little bit insane.  "What do you think it is?"

            His eyes wide, Spike let out a slow breath.  "You're one of those collectors," he stated evenly.

            Turning to Buffy and I, Mr. Smith smiled knowingly as he waited for Spike's words to sink in with us.  He placed the tips of his fingers together expectantly.

            "I don't understand.  Collectors?"  Buffy was confused.  

I had less inkling of the truth than she.  I noticed that her arm brushed Spike's almost unnoticeably, but she kept her eyes glued to Mr. Smith.

            Mr. Smith looked to Spike to provide an explanation.  Spike acquiesced, "Pet, he collects demon and mystical artifacts."

            "Artifacts?  That's not so unusual.  My mom collected those for the art gallery."  

            My heart sunk as the truth dawned, and I thought that I would perhaps never see Amber again.

            Buffy was obviously still in denial land.  What was housed in this room was more than a simple collection of artifacts for an art gallery.  Yes, the museum contained ancient relics that possessed who knew what kind of powers, but as my eyes focused more on the objects in the room, I recognized body parts.  These body parts weren't animal or human. . . they were demon.

            Mr. Smith held up a tiny device and pushed the surface button.  

            Instantaneously, a glass case along one wall began moving toward us smoothly and rapidly.  Two demon bodyguards hurried out of the way of the heavy container, and my eyes widened as my gaze focused on the contents that had been hidden by their bodies.  

            "Oh, my g. . ." Buffy whispered.  The truth hit her full in the face, and she spoke before she thought, "This is like. . .like what Cordelia told me about in L.A.  Those demon auction thingies."

            "And I'm the foremost collector among them!" Mr. Smith bragged.

Colorful fingers and toes and limbs and a head or two littered the display.  Each piece was clean. . . no gore clung excessively to the flesh.  They were carefully mounted and preserved with a label, informing the viewer of the name of the demon and date of capture. . . or death.  A jar held a large grayish brain that appeared slightly bloated in the formaldehyde.  What looked like twelve-inch spines from an unknown part of some creature's body were mounted in a long row.  And these were but a few of the horrors that greeted my eyes.  

"Yes, this is my favorite display," Mr. Smith said with a wistful expression on his face.  Something akin to icy fingers crept along my spine at his words.

Buffy cast Spike a fleeting look, but the vampire remained stoically staring forward, unreadable.  She wanted to touch him; I could tell.  Hell, I'd be reaching for my ex-wife if she were here.  I didn't care how much animosity might exist between us.  

"Can you guess what I want from Spike?  What I need help with?" Mr. Smith asked with a trace of eagerness.   

Silence met his query.

"He wants my heart."  Spike's words were strong, resonant when he interrupted Mr. Smith, and his face stayed impassive.

Buffy frowned.  "Now how would that work?  He'd be dust before you could get to it.  And how would that help you?"

Mr. Smith stared into the distance and smiled dreamily.  "I've always wanted to see a vampire's heart.  It doesn't beat. . . right?"  He transferred his attention to Spike who nodded dumbly.  The vampire clenched his fist, and a vein made its presence known on his jaw line.  "What does it do in there?  Does it get smaller and smaller over time like the Grinch's in that Seuss Christmas tale?  Or does it simply rot?  Or maybe it gets as hard as a rock. . . like a petrified stone. . . . It's the one piece that I could use to complete my collection. . . to be considered the foremost collector in the world.  You would have the honor of helping me achieve this formidable. . ."

While Mr. Smith was lost in his tangent, Buffy and Spike were surveying the room for exits and possible means of escape.  She seemed to have formulated a plan after a few seconds because she disrupted his reverie, "Listen, somehow I don't think we'll willingly let you experiment on removing Spike's heart.  At least, not tonight.  I mean it's really a lot to think about.  So, we'll just show ourselves out."

With that said, Buffy tugged on my arm, and the three of us starting proceeding to exit the way we entered.  

The two demon bodyguards that were still present didn't hesitate and blocked our trajectory within seconds.  Mr. Smith's face hardened.  "I don't think you'll be going anywhere.  You're going to help me."

*My* heart practically flew out of my chest.  The vampire from earlier this evening was nothing compared to the danger I was now faced with.  

Before I knew what was happening, Buffy and Spike were leaping on the demon pair.  Arms and legs flew in a rapid whirl of motion that would almost be elegant if I wasn't so afraid.  Dizzy at being in the midst of their dance, I maintained enough presence of mind to approach the door. . . the threshold of freedom.  

Just as I reached my goal, Mr. Smith stepped sideways into my path, blocking me with a small smile.  I reacted before I thought, and my fist went sailing across the gulf between us.  Pain shot through my arm as I connected with his jaw, and he fell to the ground with a howl like a wounded animal.  

He didn't move, and I was triumphant.

However, his cry was a danger signal.

Twelve more demons crowded the doorway and flooded the room.  Somehow they seemed to be bigger than in the church.

I looked around for Buffy and Spike who were standing over two lifeless demon bodies, breathing heavily.  Dread spread over me.  

We were doomed.  I would have thought I'd have more faith in their abilities by now.

With a cry of rage, Spike slipped into his vampire face and launched himself at the throng.  The demons parted, apparently unnerved that this insignificant little vampire would dare to take them on alone.  They parted like the Red Sea, creating a path to the door.

Buffy started to follow Spike's lead, but he stopped her with a growl as he punched a demon in the face and back-kicked the one behind him.  "Buffy, take Sam and get out of here."

Freezing for an instant, she protested, "But. . ."

Ducking an enraged demon's slower movements, Spike shouted, "Go!"

Instantly, I knew we had to get out.  Without hesitation, I started running.  Buffy overcame her reluctance, and soon she had passed me, using her instincts to lead us through the maze of the house to world outside.  

Not used to such physical exertion, I was gasping and gulping in the cool night air with relief.  Fear and desperation fueled my run until we neared the cemetery where we'd started.  Just past the first row of tombstones, I stopped by a tree and bent forward, trying to regain some energy.  Buffy was impatient, but she saw that I couldn't keep going.  

Needing to do something, she whipped out her cell phone and dialed a number.  A brief, clipped conversation led to us being picked up a few minutes later by a man ertible who identified himself as Rupert Giles.  I wasn't sure where we'd be going next. . . if we'd be going back to the mansion.

A bit thankfully, I realized that we were heading away from the fray and toward Buffy's home.  No discussion was made about taking me home.  In fact, no mention of what had happened occurred the entire drive.


	6. Chapter 6

I know what you're thinking.  Why didn't we go back to the mansion?  I wasn't sure myself, but I wasn't about to protest.  I wasn't ready to face the monsters again. . . not yet.  And as I look back on it now, I understand there were two different agendas on the table. . . .

* * *

The eerie quiet pervaded the atmosphere, and I could feel the proverbial shoe about to drop when we entered the back door of Buffy's average-looking suburban house.  The home was hardly the place in which I expected warriors to reside.  

Once in the kitchen, Giles spun to face Buffy, his mouth a grim line.  Slamming his hand on the island in the center of the room, he announced, "What the hell do you think you were doing gallivanting about with Spike?"

I read uncertainty on Buffy's face, and the power Giles had over her became abundantly clear.  Her words came out fairly neutral, "I wasn't 'gallivanting.'"

The girl from the cemetery. . .Willow, an average-looking dark-haired man, and a teenaged girl appeared in the doorway to the rest of the house, wearing expressions akin to deer caught in headlights.  I'm sure I bore a similar visage.  

"Buffy, you *have* to be serious," the older man stated as if he'd said the same words hundreds of times.  He probably had.  "There is *real* danger out there, and you can't keep getting into side trouble.  Your focus at the moment is needed elsewhere."

Buffy tensed in front of me, and she took a few steps forward, meeting him halfway and placing her hands on the surface of the kitchen island.  "Like I went looking for it."

"Well, it certainly seems like you always find it when you're with Spike."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"  Buffy's temper was flaring now, and I could see her point.  Granted, I had no idea of her full history with Spike, and he *was* a vampire, albeit a soulful one.  

Giles planted his fingertips on the counter and leaned toward Buffy.  "It means just what I said.  Another of your girls is dead. . . *dead*, Buffy, and you're out with Spike!  And now he's in trouble, and instead of re-grouping with the girls, you want to charge out there. . ." Giles punctuated his point by jabbing a finger toward the kitchen window, ". . . and waste precious time and energy rescuing someone who seems of late to always need rescuing!"

"He doesn't always need rescuing," she said resolutely.  "He's been very helpful in our fight against evil."  

"And he's also been a huge liability.  He's very vulnerable to attack from the First."  (Then, why did they send him to protect me if he was so fragile?)  "You should have come back straight away from patrol and been with the rest of us."

"So, that's it?  You wanted me to come back here and babysit the girls?" Buffy asked.

Giles stepped back and crossed his arms.  "Not babysit. . . show them.  Show them that you actually care about what happens to them. . . that you aren't putting your feelings for a vampire, a *vampire,* above their needs.  They're especially fragile after the recent death."

"And where are they if they're so needy?"  Buffy attempted to peer around Giles but saw only the three behind him.  

This was an excellent point as I expected that they'd be clamoring into the kitchen if they heard the fight.

Willow cleared her throat and interjected hesitantly, "Um, Andrew and Anya took them to the Bronze."  When Giles removed his wrath from Buffy to glare briefly at Willow, the redhead became defensive with him, "Anya thought it might help them reconnect with reality a little to dance and let off some steam.  We thought you knew that.  You were here when they decided to go."

Buffy jumped on the revelation, "Oh ho!  So, they get to let off some steam, but I don't?  Why is it that I always have to take responsibility for how everyone else feels?  Half the time, I don't even know how *I* feel!"

"Letting off some steam is *not* the same thing as getting in trouble with some strange man and his demon horde," Giles countered.  "And your job is not to feel but to work past your feelings and deal with the matter at hand.  The time for feeling comes later."

"For me but not the rest of you," Buffy concluded for him.  

Giles' eyes took on a glazed and tired appearance.  "Your job, Buffy, is to always be on alert, always be ready.  You are *the* slayer. . . not the rest of us, not the slayers-in-training. . . *you*."

Buffy's face fell, eyes filling with tears that she stubbornly refused to let fall.  "And that means I'm not allowed to be human."

"Buffy, you *aren't* human," Giles pronounced quietly.  Regret radiated from him as soon as he finished his statement.

Despite this, Buffy's face hardened, and her eyes glinted with a steel I had never seen in anyone else.  She seemed to retreat inside herself as she spoke her next words with soft defiance, "I'm going after Spike.  Tonight.  The girls won't even notice that I'm gone."

"Buffy. . ."

Refusing to meet his eyes, Buffy held up a hand and turned to Willow.  "What can you tell me about those demons I described to you over the phone?"

Opening her P.D.A. and reading off the tiny screen, Willow didn't acknowledge Giles either.  "Dak'tosh.  They're big.  And they're strong."  (Gee, that was helpful.)  Her brow furrowed as she scrolled down further.  "And they are especially vulnerable to magic but not physical prowess."

"What kind of magic?" Buffy asked, reading over Willow's shoulder.

Willow grinned.  "The kind I'm an expert at."

"You're *not* coming.  It's not your fight.  There must be some kind of portable mojo that I could take with me."

"Well, there is, but I'd rather go with," the redhead said in protection of her friend's decision.  When she read the questions in Buffy's eyes, she added, "I want to be at your side. . . if you're going in, I'm there."

Buffy nodded her acceptance.  "You got what you need?"

"Just a sec."  

As I attempted to process the information that Willow could perform magic, she hurried to a kitchen cabinet and rummaged through the clutter while Buffy headed into the other room.  Willow produced a packet of herbs, and Buffy returned with a large battle-ax.  

"Let's go," Buffy said, hefting the weapon.  "Mr. Fisher.  We'll drop you off at home on the way."

"Okay," I agreed, straightening from where I'd been leaning on the kitchen cabinet.  

As Willow, Buffy, and I were going out the door, the dark-haired man stopped us by reaching out an arm as if he didn't want us to go.  "Guys. . . Willow. . ."

Willow was resolved.  "I'm going, Xander."

Xander backed down.  "Be careful."

"We will."

* * *

            At this point, I was exhausted and ready to go home.  Did I?  Of course not!

* * *

            A horn blared at us when we were halfway to my home.  Being tired and slightly on edge about my surroundings, I nearly jumped out of my skin at the noise.  Buffy and Willow stopped when they recognized what I later knew to be Xander's SUV.

            A window rolled down with urgency.  Xander's head poked out, and he smiled at us.  "Need a lift?"

            Willow fairly skipped to the door.  "Xander!  You came!"

            "Of course!" he said cheerfully in contrast to the concern he showed at Buffy's house.  "I couldn't leave my two girls to walk into danger alone.  How would that look with me as the token male of this threesome?"

Buffy joined Willow at the door.  "Careful, Xander.  You may come across as sounding like you're talking about something else."

"Your mind. . . always in the gutter," Xander quipped.  Then, he sobered thoughtfully.  "We okay?" he asked Buffy.

Buffy grinned.  "Of course!"

"So, are we ready to Three Musketeer our way into the fortress of doom?"  He winked at Buffy.  

"Hey!" a voice rose from the passenger seat.  "What am I?  Chopped liver?  I'm here to help, too!"  

"Dawn!" Buffy exclaimed in dismay.  "What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like?  I'm helping my big sis break the Big Bad out of prison!"

"I don't want you to get hurt."

Dawn shook her head.  "Don't worry.  I'm just here to have the getaway car running and ready for our take off after you guys rescue Spike."

"*You?*  You, drive the getaway car?"  Buffy was amused.  

"Well, yeah.  I technically *almost* got my driver's permit," Dawn noted.

"*Almost* and *actually* are two different things."

Dawn rolled her eyes skyward.  "Well, you know.  The hellmouth didn't let me take the test on time."

"Sounds very fishy to me.  Kind of like the excuse that the dog ate your homework," Buffy teased.  

I could definitely see them as sisters.  Sometimes I regretted that Amber didn't have at least one sibling.  She'd probably be far less lonely.

Buffy was still talking.  ". . . and I think it might be wise if Mr. Fisher came and sat with you in the car. . . just in case some demons slip past us and come after you."  Buffy twisted to confront me.  "Do you mind, Mr. Fisher?"

            What could I say to that?  I couldn't leave the girl. . . Dawn alone. . . not when she reminded me of Amber.  "Sure.  No, no, I don't mind."


	7. Chapter 7

The next part of the tale is very boring because all Dawn and I did was sit in the car, but I'll tell you what happened anyway. The events to follow our car discussion were quite exciting.

xxxxx

Dawn started the conversation first. As a person who deals mainly with dead or grieving people, I very rarely spoke to teenagers, and I could hardly consciously remember my own teenage years without cringing.

Granted she didn't start with the most inspiring statement, but hey, she at least thought of something to say.

"So, um, you're the funeral director." She sat behind the wheel, gripping the circle firmly and staring at the mansion as if she expected the group to come back out any second. They had only gone in a few minutes ago.

"Yeah, and you're Buffy's sister." So my statement wasn't particularly brilliant either.

"Yeah." She chose that moment to gracefully sweep up her hair in a bun on the top of her head. I decided that she would be a real beauty one day. Her hands automatically returned to their position on the steering wheel.

"So what's it like to have a sister like Buffy?" I wondered aloud.

She shot me a quick glance and ducked her head to her lap. "Sometimes very wonderful. Sometimes not easy at all."

I nodded even though she wasn't watching. "I understand that."

Dawn started again in a gush, and I was so startled that all I could do was listen. "Buffy's great, but sometimes she's so distant that I wonder if she sees me at all. And sometimes she's really there, and I know she's with me. A-and I really worry about her. I worry about how she's feeling, what she's thinking. I worry that she's not really living." She bowed her head a little lower. "And I worry that it's my fault."

My stomach turned over. Here was a girl who blamed herself for her sister's unhappiness. I said what I would have said to Amber. "It's not your fault if your sister's not having the best time right now. She's got a lot on her shoulders, and you are definitely not at fault for that."

Dawn looked up with eyes wide and soft with unshed tears. "But I wouldn't even be here if Buffy wasn't the slayer. She only has to worry about me because she is the slayer."

I opened my mouth to say something but found I wasn't sure how to reply.

Suddenly, a blinding flash of brilliant red light shot out from every window of the mansion, saving me from having to answer her. Straightening in the seat and feeling all my senses rise to hyper-alert, I gripped the ax that I'd forgotten I was holding in my lap.

"What the hell was that?"

Emotional revelation forgotten, Dawn grinned at me. "Willow."

"Willow?" I was confused.

"Willow's a witch. . .an extremely powerful witch."

"Oh." And I'd thought Willow could perform a few spells. . . not almost level a house!

The front door to the mansion burst open, and two figures rushed toward us surrounded by a haze of red smoke and crackling electricity. One was leaning heavily on the other. Reacting to my instincts, I jumped out of the SUV and scrambled to open the back door.

Buffy's features clarified from the jumble of leftover magic, and I saw that she was relying on Spike to move. I wasn't sure what was wrong until they got even closer, and when I hurried toward them to assist, I noted that Buffy's right leg dangled at an odd angle. . . no doubt broken. A red stain was rapidly saturating her shirt.

I took the burden of the slight figure on his arm, helping Buffy to the back seat of the car and gingerly helping her position her leg into a more comfortable position. She slipped into unconsciousness as soon as she sank against the seat. Dawn crawled back beside Buffy and stroked her face tenderly as she inspected her for wounds.

Spike's face was disfigured with bruises and blood, and his clothes were ripped in several places. He leaned against the car and placed his hands on his thighs, attempting to catch his breath. . . although from what I'd heard, vampires didn't need to breathe.

He cast me a sideways glance. "The witch and the boy are still inside."

I nodded.

"I can't get both. You up for coming with me?" he asked next.

"Um. Sure." I held up the ax.

He waved his arm at the weapon. "You won't need that. The bad guys are all dead." He turned to a worried Dawn. "Be back soon, bit."

Her eyes not moving from her sister, she said, "'Kay."

I set the ax aside and trailed the vampire to the house. In the back of my mind, I wondered why the neighbors weren't the least bit curious about the hubbub.

As we reached the front door again, he warned me, "Get ready, there's still magic hanging in the air here, and you might find it a bit hard to breathe."

Steeling myself for discomfort, I plunged into the house after the vampire and promptly almost stumbled over a demon carcass lying in the front hall. My stomach tightened as something I'd never felt before rolled over my skin and filled my lungs with a searing, burning sensation.

A firm hand grasped my elbow before I fell, and through the haze I caught Spike's eye. "Careful, Sam."

Scarlet sparks sizzled over my skin, singing the hairs, and I forced back the decision to cry out in pain. After a few seconds of wading through the remains of demons and magic, I adjusted and ignored the lingering discomfort, focusing on the mission. The mansion was larger than I remembered from earlier tonight. Demon bodies lined every room, every hallway. How did they all fit in here? How could they possibly all live here?

"Do you know where they are?" I asked at one point. A wave of fire swept over my lungs, and I touched a wall to steady myself.

"I have an idea," he responded, continuing to pick his way through the mess.

I was better prepared to speak the second time. "An idea?"

His voice was slightly muffled as we rounded a corner. "Yeah. I follow the magic to the source. And I can hear heartbeats."

My hand went to my chest to feel the steady thrum against my fingertips.

A trace of humor laced Spike's response. "And no, yours isn't too loud for me to hear the others."

"G-good."

Several minutes later and deep inside the mansion, the magic became thicker and heavier against my lungs. Spike deftly leapt over a large demon blocking a doorway and offered me a hand as I struggled to climb over the same hulking form.

As soon as I've made it to the other side, a coughing fit struck me, and I bent at the waist as I attempted to catch my breath. Spike clapped me on the back a couple of times to make sure I was taking in air before he left my side to move aside the demon. When I recovered enough to wipe away stray tears and stand halfway straight again, I observed Spike gathering the slight form of Willow into his arms on the other side of the room.

"She's unconscious," Spike informed me. He tilted his head toward a semi-conscious Xander who was slumped in a corner. "Can you help him? I think he's okay enough to walk on his own if he has support."

Afraid to open my mouth and utter words, I nonverbally signaled my assent and headed toward Xander who lifted his head on my approach. Spike was right, and I was able to bring him to a standing position without much effort. Together, we half-limped, half-shuffled back the way we'd come in.

When we reached the fresh night air, Xander was recovered enough to move without my aid. He patted me on the shoulder. "Thanks, man." His words were hoarse.

I bobbed my head and gulped in the air like a fish that had been out of the water too long.

Bringing medical supplies and an extra set of wheels, a repentant Giles had arrived since our entrance into the mansion. Within minutes, we were all bundled safely inside one vehicle or the other and were whisked back to the Summers' home.

xxxxx

After that final experience, I pretty much decided that it was time to leave Sunnydale. Turned out that the reason why no one came out of their homes to witness the disturbance was because most people in Sunnydale were fleeing town. Wealthy families had abandoned the city first.

Before I left, however, I decided to do something for Buffy and Spike as a small gesture of thanks for their protection. . . .

xxxxx

Arriving at my apartment at exactly seven in the evening, Buffy was on time, her long blonde hair freshly washed and curled. I'd never seen her with her hair down, and she was stunning. She wore a simple black dress and long silver earrings that matched the silver accents on the straps across her shoulders. She was less like a slightly damaged, tireless slayer and more like the young adult she was. She also bore no traces of a broken leg. . . nor bruises or cuts. Apparently, Slayers heal quickly.

Embarrassed by her appearance, she smiled a bit shyly at me with shining eyes. "I don't ever dress up anymore," she explained.

I gave her a valid compliment, "Well, you look lovely."

"Thanks."

Her eyes immediately searched the living room behind me, and I allowed her to slip past me and into my home. Most of my belongings were packed away, hidden in squares of brown cardboard that I'd finagled from the one grocery store still open in town. Therefore, the walls were bare, and the shelves contained no pictures or knickknacks.

But Buffy wasn't examining the contents of my home.

"He's not here yet," I interjected into her investigation.

Buffy's shoulders dropped just slightly. "Oh. Well, I haven't seen him all day."

"But he's coming. He wouldn't miss the thank-you dinner I've planned for you. He R.S.V.P.'d. Why don't you have seat." I gestured toward the sofa. "Would you like some wine?"

Her expression revealed the hesitance of one who wasn't used to drinking. Then, as she lowered herself onto the sofa, she cautiously asked, "What kind do you have?"

"I'll pour you a glass of the Riesling. It's got kind of a fruity aftertaste. How's that?"

She was relieved. "Sure." Before I could leave, she pointed at my electronic keyboard that remained on its stand across the room. "You play?"

"Yep. I do."

"For funerals?"

I laughed lightly. "No, not at all. Actually, I play, write songs, and sing them."

"Really?" She sounds amazed as if she couldn't believe that a funeral director did something so creative.

I headed to pour the wine. "Yeah. I'll play for you after dinner if you like."

"That'd be great!"

Entering my tiny kitchen, I grabbed the chilled bottle and filled us each a glass of the white wine.

Buffy's voice rose from the adjacent room, "So when are you moving back to L.A.?"

"In a couple of days. I have a couple of friends, Lisa and Jim, coming in town that are going to help me load up."

As I re-entered the living room, I handed Buffy her wine, which she briefly cradled in both hands before taking a tiny sip. "Thanks. Are your friends from L.A., too?"

"Well, they've been vacationing in Florida for the last month or so. Sunnydale's only a little out of the way on their way back to L.A. I guess to answer your question, they are from L.A." I perched on the couch next to Buffy, making sure she had plenty of personal space.

"That's cool. I have some friends there. . . and some family." The way she said friends and family made me wonder about her personal history with them. . . if they'd hurt her somehow.

Before I could ask her about her hesitation, the doorbell rang followed by a sharp knock. Buffy's head shot up with mine, and eagerness lit her face before she hid it away.

Balancing my wine glass on the coffee table, I rose and opened the door for the only other person I was expecting. . . Spike. He wore the outfit I'd provided him earlier that day because we were the same height and build. He'd managed to iron the pants and seemed freshly showered like Buffy.

"Good evening," I greeted.

Spike shoved his hands in his pockets and proffered a slight smile. When he hadn't moved after several seconds, I stepped back to make him more room.

Buffy giggled from the sofa. "You have to invite him in, Mr. Fisher, because he has to have an invite into people's homes."

"Sam," I reminded her.

"Sam," she repeated.

"Come in, Spike."

Spike stepped into the living room with a grin. "Actually, I don't need it, pet. The earlier invite from Sam was enough."

"Earlier?" Buffy asked.

Spike tugged at the shirt he was wearing. "The clothes."

"Oh."

"Sam loaned them to me earlier today," Spike admitted. "Thanks," he told me for the fourth time.

I smiled. Part of me still couldn't believe I was putting trust in a vampire.

"Well, you look nice," Buffy conceded.

"Thanks. You look. . ." Spike studied her with obvious love. ". . . beautiful."

She ducked her head as she'd done with me. "Thanks."

"And you're drinking wine," he commented in a way that I knew I was missing something.

She raised her glass playfully. "Yep."

"Would you like some?" I offered.

"I'd love some." His eyes never left the young woman on the sofa.

The oven conveniently went off in the kitchen.

"Well, that's actually dinner. Why don't you go ahead and sit in the dining room while I get the chicken out."

"Let me help you," Buffy suggested, avoiding Spike's gaze as she stood and self-consciously smoothed her dress.

"No, no," I insisted. "You two go get a seat." Before Buffy could insist, I hastily exited into the kitchen to shut off the shrill timer.

After I'd arranged everything on the kitchen counter, I discovered I couldn't possibly manage everything by myself with any speed.

"Actually," I called, "I could use some help in here after all."

The pair appeared in the kitchen doorway at virtually the same time so that their arms brushed. A palpable current spun through the air, and I smiled happily to myself. I was silly to play matchmaker for a vampire and a slayer, but as I was learning, love didn't take into account such rules.

They parted when it became obvious they were touching, and each grabbed a dish to bring in the other room. Together, we handled everything in one trip, and I chose specifically to sit across from them so that they had to sit next to one another at the rectangular table.

Raising my glass, I cleared my throat and announced, "You probably know the reason I asked you here tonight. Well, I just wanted to officially thank you both for saving my life more than once since I've been in Sunnydale. If it hadn't been for you two the first night at the funeral home, I'd be long dead by now. I might even be undead. . . no offense to present company meant."

"None taken, mate," Spike said kindly.

"And I know I don't have blood for you, but I didn't know where to procure any."

"It's okay. I enjoy these sorts of meals just the same." He glanced purposefully at Buffy, and she smiled at him.

"So, anyway, thank you for your protection. Dig in. The one thing my ex-wife loved about me was my cooking."

With that, dinner commenced. Throughout dinner and small talk, the pair snuck glances at one another, and when they were sure the other wasn't watching, their expressions were tender and loving. I watched enthralled and took note because I wanted to find that kind of connection one day.

After dinner was over, Buffy and Spike assisted me in cleaning the kitchen despite my protests. When everything was neatly put away, I entered the living room and switched on my keyboard.

Spike raised his eyebrows at me.

"Buffy wanted me to play after dinner," I clarified.

He exchanged a look with Buffy. "You did?"

Buffy lowered her eyes. "Yeah."

"Don't worry, I won't scare you off with my singing," I joked. "I'll just play you a few original instrumental pieces. How's that?"

"Sounds great!" Buffy responded with enthusiasm.

Positioning myself on the small stool, I closed my eyes, blotting out the two curious figures before me. Within seconds, I was lost in the ebb and flow of the chords and rhythms. I wasn't half bad, and I knew it, but I was still curious about my audience's reaction. Halfway through my first piece, I opened my eyes.

What I saw didn't surprise me. I didn't know if their actions were to be taken as an accolade to my work, but I knew it pleased me.

Spike held Buffy fast against him as they moved to the slow, flowing music. Her head leaned against his chest, and her eyes were tightly shut as he rubbed her back softly and held one of her hands in his own. His cheek rested atop her head, and his eyes matched hers.

While I was watching, she opened her eyes and moved her head. Startled, his eyes flew open at her gesture, alarm painted on his features. She brought her other hand to his cheek then and smiled, and relief pulled itself over his face. In reassurance, she moved her arm from his face to his waist and drew him closer. As she repositioned her head on his chest, he resumed his with a contented expression.

She caught me studying them, and with the comfort she had always shown around me, she smiled before closing her eyes again. Somehow, I knew she didn't display this sort of behavior in front of most people. Happy with her trust, I threw myself into the music wholeheartedly, determined to make their moment extra special.

Without break, I launched into my second piece even though my fingers were tiring because I hadn't played in a while and hadn't warmed up. At an easier section of the music, I turned my attention to the pair again just in time to witness something that had to be historic for them.

Buffy gently pulled Spike's lips to her own and stared into his eyes with a smile before kissing him softly. Spike seemed absolutely shocked but didn't let grass grow under his feet. He was soon kissing her back with a slow enthusiasm, mindful of where he was.

Allowing them a moment, I returned to the music and ended after the second song, partly because I was drained and partly because I didn't have anything else decent to play.

They drew apart reluctantly, told me how beautifully I played, and bade me good night. As they exited, Buffy handed Spike the dinner leftovers, which I'd given her because I wouldn't have time to eat them. Without reservation, she threw her arms around my neck and hugged me briefly.

"Take care," she whispered in my ear. "And thank you for tonight."

Spike, of course, heard everything she thought was inaudible, and he added, "Yeah, thanks."

As they headed down the stairs together toward Buffy's vehicle, she called, "Be careful in L.A. and stay in touch!" She bounded down the stairs, seeming lighter than I'd ever seen her.

Spike followed more slowly and nodded back at me before he reached the stairwell. "Night."

I merely lifted my hand in goodbye.

xxxxx

And that was the last time I saw them. They were happy; they'd danced, although more deliberately and gently than the first time I'd seen them. I'll never forget them. I don't know if they shared anything remotely similar after I left Sunnydale, but I felt a certain peace, knowing that such love and mutual respect was. . . is possible.

How was I to know that L.A. was worse off than Sunnydale in the evil department this spring? I didn't, but I'm coming to you because Buffy gave me your card that evening when they came to dinner and told me to look you up if I ever needed help.

Were you close to Buffy, Angel? From the look on your face, you don't seem too happy to hear this story. Well, you don't have to answer, but I'm sorry if my tale bothered you in any way.

Aside from that, I do need your help. You see, Lisa and Jim have this little problem with the demon who lives across the hall from them, and Amber said that there's a scary monster living in the girl's restroom at her nursery school. . . .

The end.

Hope you liked the ending.. .sorry it took so long to post it:o)


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